


A Small Adventure

by Bobcatmoran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Crack, Gen, honey i shrunk the characters, kitty!, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:38:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6318586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/pseuds/Bobcatmoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel finds that being shrunk to one-tenth of his normal height is no walk in the park. For starters, walking across the park now takes <i>way</i> too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Adventure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thunder_rolled_a_six](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunder_rolled_a_six/gifts).



> For the prompt "Bahorel has a small adventure."

The most difficult part of being only a tenth of his original height, Bahorel decided, was that it put a decided damper on his status as a _flâneur_. One could not stroll the streets of Paris properly when to traverse a block may take a quarter of an hour, and his newfound close proximity to the muck and the waste of the Paris streets was actually making him (horrors!) disillusioned with city living.

Jean Prouvaire had heard that despite his unfortunate accident ("I _told_ you not to upset that man! He had blue hair! Blue! Nothing good can come of disturbing blue-haired men!" Joly had cried), Bahorel was still determined to use his tickets to the theater that night. Prouvaire had offered to carry him in a pocket, but, finding that undignified, Bahorel had decided upon the omnibus as a practical transport solution. True, carrying the coinage for the fare was a bit beyond him right now, but, he reasoned, his small weight would hardly add to the horses' burden, and he didn't have to take up a full seat. Actually, right now, he was seated beneath the bench. From down here, he had a fine view of everyone's boots and shoes. He absently noted that the cuffs of Prouvaire's trousers were fraying, and that he'd somehow managed to get a blue stain on them just above the ankle.

As the driver called out their stop, Prouvaire and Bahorel rose to hop out. But as Prouvaire picked his way to the door, gingerly stepping over legs and skirts, Bahorel found himself swept aside by the skirt of a grisette who was also rising to leave. By the time he was able to recover from this assault by petticoat, the omnibus was already starting to move again. He ran to the door, jumped down the steps, and, steeling himself for the impact, launched himself out onto the cobblestones.

Prouvaire was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

It was a quarter hour after the curtain went up, and Jean Prouvaire was still searching the streets for Bahorel. Varying scenarios flitted through his head as to what could have happened.

_Perhaps he has gotten lost, with everything looking so different from his new perspective._

_Perhaps he was run over._

_Perhaps he was eaten by a cat._

_Perhaps he was run over and then eaten by a cat._

_Perhaps he was eaten by a cat who then was run over._

_Perhaps he got very lost, wound up in the animal cages at the Jardin des Plantes, and was eaten by a lion._

_And then run over?_

_No._

_Lions are too big to be run over._

_But they are big enough to eat Bahorel, and oh,_ Bahorel _, oh, my dear friend, eaten by a lion, how terrible…_

He was drawn out of his fantasies of increasingly dire scenarios by something butting against his legs, and a small voice that sounded like — was that Bahorel? He looked down. "Bahorel!" he cried.

"Lo, Prouvaire!" Bahorel called back. He was riding astride a mangy-looking, one-eyed orange tabby, had his cravat tied around his head like a headband, was covered in mud up to his knees, and was wielding a pointed stick like a sword.

"Oh, Bahorel, I am so glad that you weren't eaten by a lion," Prouvaire said, relieved.

"Ha, hardly! I'd show him what for," Bahorel said, waving his sword-stick about. "Prouvaire, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend. This is Monsieur Fluffikins. Monsieur Fluffikins, this is Jehan Prouvaire, one of my dearest friends, and you are not to bite nor scratch him, yes?"

The cat made a nonchalant meow, then headbutted Prouvaire's legs again.

Prouvaire bent over, let Monsieur Fluffikins sniff at his hand, then scritched the cat along his shoulders. "You will have to tell me what happened. It sounds like quite the adventure."

"It's not such a big tale as that — but I suppose we've missed the play then?"

"Oh, no, we could probably still get there before the intermission. And I daresay I could contrive to bring Monsieur Fluffikins along, too, if he is a patron of the dramatic arts. I know most felines aren't, but I should _hope_ that you have better taste in friends than that, Bahorel."

"We can certainly try and find out. So the plan is what? To stuff him under your doublet?"

"More or less. And you may have to ride in my pocket after all. I doubt that the ushers will let you in looking like that."

"Hm. Well, I suppose if we need to. And besides, if sneaking the cat in doesn't work and he escapes," Bahorel said with a grin, "I'm sure we'll still get a show out of it."


End file.
